Chapter 3 - THE LETTER IN CLARA’S CARPETBAG
Henry did not read the rest of the letter.
Not then.
He folded it.
Put it back exactly where he found it.
Then hated himself for noticing it at all.
Clara coughed from the bed.
Everything else became secondary.
By noon her fever had climbed.
Henry melted snow.
Made willow-bark tea.
Kept broth warm.
Forced himself not to pace because pacing accomplished nothing.
At two, Clara opened her eyes.
“You look terrible.”
“You’re the one with fever.”
“I’m conserving politeness.”
“Drink.”
She obeyed.
That worried him more.
Healthy Clara argued first.
Henry held the cup while she swallowed.
Afterward she stared at his hand.
“You have a cut.”
He looked.
A split across one knuckle.
“Wood.”
“You told me hands are tools.”
“I recall.”
“Maintain them.”
Even sick, she remembered.
Henry smiled despite himself.
Her eyes softened.
“You should do that more.”
“What?”
“That.”
He immediately stopped.
Clara laughed weakly.
Then coughed until she curled forward.
Henry steadied her shoulders.
When it passed, her face had drained white.
“I’m going for Dr. Walsh.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“The trail—”
“I’ll use snowshoes.”
“You’ll kill yourself.”
“I won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
Henry pulled on his coat.
Clara grabbed his wrist.
“Don’t leave.”
Not fear of solitude this time.
Fear for him.
The realization hit harder than it should have.
“I need medicine.”
“There isn’t time.”
“There is.”
“How far?”
“Eighteen miles.”
“Henry.”
“Walsh may be at the mining camp. Twelve.”
“In this?”
“Yes.”
She stared at him.
Then:
“Take the red scarf.”
He frowned.
“What?”
“My red scarf.”
“Why?”
“If you fall, they’ll see you easier.”
Practical.
Always practical.
He found it folded in her bag.
Not the side pocket with the letter.
He tied it around his neck.
Clara watched.
“You look ridiculous.”
“Live long enough to insult me tomorrow.”
“I intend to.”
Henry left.
The mountain nearly proved him a liar.
Three times wind erased the trail.
Once he broke through a drift to his waist.
At the lower creek, ice had formed unevenly beneath the snow and his right leg plunged through.
He dragged himself out before the water reached his knee.
By the time he reached the old logging road, his beard had frozen solid.
Then he heard bells.
A sleigh.
Dr. Walsh was already coming up.
The elderly physician rode beneath blankets beside a young ranch hand.
“How the devil—”
“Carter saw smoke from your ridge after the chimney trouble,” Walsh shouted. “Figured someone might be hurt.”
Henry nearly collapsed from relief.
They reached the cabin near sunset.
Walsh examined Clara.
Listened to her chest.
Checked her pulse.
“Bronchial inflammation. Could turn worse.”
Henry’s jaw tightened.
“Pneumonia?”
“Not yet.”
“Medicine?”
“I brought laudanum, mustard plaster, quinine if the fever climbs. Mostly warmth, water, food.”
Walsh looked around.
Then at Henry.
“And don’t let her do anything foolish.”
Clara opened one eye.
“He climbed a roof in a whiteout.”
Walsh looked at Henry.
“Both of you are idiots.”
Fair.
The doctor stayed the night.
By morning Clara’s fever had eased.
Walsh left after breakfast.
Before going, he pulled Henry aside.
“She’s thin.”
“I noticed.”
“Too thin.”
“She eats.”
“Now.”
Henry frowned.
Walsh lowered his voice.
“Old bruising around ribs. Healed poorly.”
Henry went still.
“You saw?”
“She has scars.”
Something dark moved through Henry.
“From what?”
“You ask her.”
Henry hated that answer.
But he respected it.
After Walsh left, Clara slept.
Henry sat near the stove repairing a trap chain.
His eyes kept moving to the carpetbag.
Finally Clara said:
“You can ask.”
He looked over.
She was awake.
“Ask what?”
“The question you’ve been beating into that chain for twenty minutes.”
Henry set it down.
“Who hurt you?”
No surprise.
Clara looked toward the window.
“My brother.”
Henry’s body became very still.
“Daniel?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because after Mama died, he decided he owned everything.”
Her voice had no drama.
That made it worse.
“Our apartment. My wages. Me.”
Henry said nothing.
“At first it was money. Then where I went. Who I spoke to.”
She picked at the blanket.
“Then he started drinking more.”
Henry knew the rest without hearing it.
Clara continued anyway.
“He never broke my face. Said neighbors asked questions about faces.”
Henry’s hands curled.
“He broke ribs?”
“Once.”
“When?”
“Last winter.”
“Why didn’t you leave?”
Her eyes snapped to his.
“Where?”
That stopped him.
“Women do not always have magical houses waiting for them, Henry.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know.”
She breathed slowly.
“I saved money. He found it. I tried again. Then a woman at the factory told me about the agency.”
“Matrimonial agency.”
“Yes.”
“You signed up to get away.”
“I signed up because Montana was two thousand miles from Daniel.”
Henry absorbed that.
“And the agency knew?”
“Some.”
“The letter?”
Her face changed.
So she knew he had seen it.
“You found it.”
“Part of it.”
“Read it?”
“First paragraph.”
“Why stop?”
“Wasn’t mine.”
Clara looked at him for a long time.
Then she reached beneath the bed and pulled out the envelope.
“Read it.”
He did.
The agency had received inquiries from a man claiming to be Clara’s brother.
Daniel Shaw.
He accused Clara of stealing money.
Claimed she was mentally unstable.
Asked for her destination.
The agency stated they had not knowingly provided Henry’s exact address.
Knowingly.
Henry’s jaw tightened.
“When did this arrive?”
“Helena.”
“You had it before we came here?”
“Yes.”
“You said nothing.”
“I thought it was another threat.”
“There were tracks outside yesterday.”
Clara went white.
“What?”
“Someone came to the cabin during the storm.”
Henry handed her the note.
WINTER IS LONG.
She stared.
“That’s him.”
“You’re sure?”
“He used to say that.”
“What did he mean?”
“When I talked about leaving Chicago.”
Her fingers tightened.
“He’d say I wouldn’t last one winter alone.”
Henry stood.
Clara looked up.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking rifles.”
“No.”
His gaze dropped to her.
“If Daniel Shaw is on my mountain—”
“Our mountain.”
Henry stopped.
Clara looked almost surprised by her own words.
Then repeated:
“Our cabin. Our winter. Our problem.”
Something shifted in his chest.
“All right.”
He sat again.
“Our problem.”
She exhaled.
“Daniel isn’t brave.”
“Men who beat smaller people rarely are.”
“He’ll want money.”
“What money?”
Clara hesitated.
Henry saw it.
“What?”
“There’s another reason he wants me.”
Of course.
She reached into the carpetbag.
Removed a folded document.
An inheritance notice.
Their mother’s sister had died six months earlier.
Clara inherited twelve hundred dollars.
Not a fortune to Henry.
In Chicago, to a factory worker, it was escape.
“Daniel thinks it belongs to him.”
“Does it?”
“No.”
“Then it doesn’t.”
Clara looked at him.
“You say things like they’re simple.”
“Some things are.”
“What if he brings the law?”
“For what?”
“He accused me of stealing.”
Henry held up the inheritance notice.
“This says otherwise.”
“He knows people.”
“So do I.”
She laughed.
“You know trappers.”
“Trappers are people.”
“Debatable.”
Henry smiled.
Then something struck the cabin wall.
Both froze.
A second impact.
Wood.
Henry grabbed the rifle.
Clara sat upright.
“Stay there.”
She glared.
“Don’t start.”
He opened the door.
No one.
Snow.
Trees.
Then he looked down.
An arrow had buried itself in the log beside the frame.
Tied beneath the arrowhead was another piece of paper.
Henry pulled it free.
This one addressed Clara.
COME DOWN THE MOUNTAIN BEFORE I COME UP.
Clara stood behind him.
Her fever forgotten.
Henry looked at her.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
She swallowed.
“That sounds dangerously like Daniel.”
Henry understood immediately.
He corrected himself.
“You decide where you go.”
Her face softened.
Then he added:
“But if you decide to stay, I will make damn sure he regrets climbing this ridge.”
For the first time since arriving in Montana, Clara did not look like a woman who had fled something.
She looked like a woman choosing where to stand.
“I’m staying.”
May you like
Henry nodded.
“Then we prepare.”
